French accent as thick and sweet as an eclaire.
Rag tag and bright are warm clothes you wear.
I see oceans and Rivera skies in your blue hair.
High fashion, cool, something French New Wave.
You and me, dining and dancing, no world to save.
I would be your man, and I would always be brave.
Sharing a cigarette under a black umbrella, content.
Walking hand in hand, not caring were the night went.
I dream these things, of love of you; Dreams don’t repent.
France Gall, chirpy and naïve, plays on my headphones.
In passing we are friends, and I put that flesh on bones.
Dreams are the river washing smooth discontented stones.